Month: November 2010

I was commenting to a friend of mine today that I hadn’t seen Mango in a few days (which isn’t altogether unusual), and it reminded me of something that happened back when we lived in North Charleston many years ago.  Sean’s brother had come to our house for a visit, and had spent the night on our sleeper couch.  We had a nice visit, then the next morning I left for work and the two brothers went out for coffee.  When Sean got home, he put the couch back together, and that was that.

Until a few days later, when I was lying on the couch after a long day at work.  I heard, for just a second, the tiniest little noise.  Scratch, scratch, scratch.  I sat bolt upright and looked around–there were no kitties there.  I laid back down, more alert this time.  After a minute or two, I heard it again:  scratch, scratch, scratch.   I got up, looked behind the couch, looked under the couch–nothing.  Puzzled, I sat back and stared at the couch for a minute.  Then I stuck my hand under the couch, and felt something moving in the innards of the couch.  That was definitely not nothing.  I pulled out the couch and dug out the mattress, and found a tiny little box set into the bottom of the frame, out of which a very wet hiss and some unpleasant smells were emitting.  Mango had found a fantastic hidey-hole.  So fantastic, in fact, that if I had not been lying on that couch that particular day, archeologists might have found her shrunken remains hundreds of years later during a routine dig.  

But of course, Mango being Mango, she refused to come out of the hole.  Never mind that she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in at least three days.  Never mind that she was using her hidey-hole as a combination bedroom/bathroom suite.  (I did mention that she’s not quite right in the head, didn’t I?)  She simply dug her freakishly tiny heels in and refused to come out.  I even left the room, thinking she would come out when she got good and ready.  Silly, silly me.

I hated to do it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.  I pulled out the vacuum cleaner.  And then turned it on, right next to the couch, on the opposite side of the hole, so instinct would take over and she would run out.  The fact that Mango lives on in our basement, hissing wetly at us and scaredy-scatting on everything in sight in evidence that I was successful. 

I wish I could say that Mango learned a very valuable lesson that day.  But unfortunately, I seriously doubt that was the case.  Every time Mango goes missing for a day or two, I feel compelled to go looking for her.  Because Mango is still a Buddy.  Emotionally disturbed or not, Mango is part of the crazy menagerie we call home, and she’s still a Buddy.  Here’s hoping her addled little brain understands that someday, too.

So, the other night, I went to brush my teeth and noticed that there were large drops of blood on the floor and the countertop.  The floor could be any of them, but the countertop could only be one of two of them–Wanda or Mister.  I followed the trail of blood into our bedroom to find Mister asleep on the bed with large drops of blood surrounding him, then more drops of blood on the floor where he’d jumped up on the bed.  

I picked him up, took him to the bathroom, and called for Sean.  We closed both bathroom doors and spent the next ten to fifteen minutes trying to figure out where he was bleeding.  We checked his rear-end–nothing.  We checked all four paw pads–clean.  We checked his mouth, since several of the buddies have lost teeth unexpectedly–all remaining teeth accounted for.  We went over every square inch of his body with our hands and eyes and could not find the source of the blood, even though he had blood all over his fur as well.  

By this point, we were pretty puzzled, so we started checking the other cats, in case he’d gotten in a fight with one of them, and this wasn’t even his blood.  We realized it was a long shot, but it was worth a try.  No dice.  Then we searched the basement to see if he’d found (and dispatched) a critter down there.  There was no evidence of any other blood except for in the bathroom, bedroom and office.  Mind you, there was a fair amount of blood in there.  We actually considered calling our vet, who does his own emergency calls, except we didn’t really know what to tell him.  Additionally, except for the part about being poked, prodded and held in the bathroom against his will, Mister didn’t seem to be in any real distress.

So we started trying to rule out other possibilities–he’d scratched off a scab on his head, which had miraculously already started to mend.  Or he’d cut his paw, but he’d already had time to lick it back into good health, and that’s why we couldn’t find it.  Finally, we landed on the most logical option–Mister had suddenly developed a stigmata.  This would be a very good possibility, except for one small problem–Mister is at best a lapsed Catholic, and I’m not even sure he’s that.  So it makes very little sense that he would have a stigmata.  But, since it’s the best we could come up with, we’re just going to go with it for now.  

But we might be very concerned if Mister starts coming up from the basement smelling of incense and trying to make his break out of the house every Sunday around 11:00am.  Just in case this happens, does anybody know a priest who makes house calls?

Everybody in the world, whether they know it or not, was put on this earth for a reason.  For some, it’s to save lives in an emergency room.  For others, it’s to feed starving children in third-world countries.  For me, apparently, it’s to make sure that Mister gets all of his mush, and doesn’t get railroaded by the other cats into giving his up.

Yes, it’s my Special Purpose.  It’s humble perhaps, but I embrace it.  My job is to stand there and keep the other cats (Reggie, Elroy, and Otto in particular) from stealing Mister’s food.  Because Mister is, without a doubt, the world’s slowest feline eater.  Mister is either the reincarnated version of a Southern belle (“oh my, I really couldn’t touch another bite”), or else he was French in a previous life.  Mister delicately, deliberately, savors his mush.  Every tiny little lick of it.  In the time that he takes to eat one sixth of a can of turkey, Reggie could have scarfed down his, Wanda’s and probably seven other cats’ portions.  And don’t think Reggie hasn’t noticed how slow Mister eats, and how easy it would be to get a whole other plate of food in the bargain.

So I get to stand in front of Mister and run interference.  This evening, it looked like this:  Mister is in the dining room, under the table, eating his mush.  Reggie comes around the corner from the kitchen, and I promptly bar his way into the dining room.  So then he slinks under the china cabinet, where I can keep an eye on him.  But then here comes Otto, also out of the kitchen.  I have to bar his entrance into the room, too.  So then Reggie sees his chance and tries to bolt out from under the china cabinet.  I karate chop down with my hand to keep him incarcerated under the cabinet.  So then Otto makes his move, heading for the dining room table.  I’m squatting on the floor, one arm beside the china cabinet and the other extended to bar the charging Meezer.  I sit like this for what feels like an hour.

Then Mister lifts his head up, backs up, licks his lips leisurely, then heads back into his plate…again.  So I sit there for a while longer, wondering if I’ll still be able to feel my legs when I stand up.  

Finally, Mister has his fill, and walks past me nonchalantly.  I lift up my hands and Reggie and Otto have at it.  Honestly, you’d think we starved them.

But at least I found my Special Purpose! 

It’s a good thing we live in Asheville, and particularly in West Asheville.  Otherwise, I’m pretty sure our neighbors would have already had us committed.  As it stands, living here, people barely bat an eye when you do wacky, eccentric things.  Like take your Siamese cat for a walk in a Buddy Stroller.  

Otto had a rough day yesterday (see the previous post if you’re interested in the details) so as a special treat, we took him on a long walk up to Haywood Road in his Buddy Stroller.  The Buddy Stroller is a specially designed stroller just for cats and dogs that has a zip-up compartment where the cat(s) or dog(s) can sit in relative comfort and observe the world without threat of other animals or without being able to run away.  Otto and Wanda mostly like it, but they have their doubts.  We had to run an errand up to Haywood, and it had turned into such a nice day that we thought Otto might enjoy a walk.  That turned out to be only mostly true.  

I think for the most part, he did like it.  He yowled every few seconds, but sometimes it’s hard to tell when that’s a distress sound and when he’s just reminding you he’s there.  It was an uneventful trip, except for when we got to our destination and Sean stuck his finger in to give Otto some reassurance that all was well.  When he did, the crappy plastic zipper failed, opening a big hole in the nice safe Buddy Stroller.  I emerged from Beauty Parade (our destination) to find Sean desperately trying to mend the zipper rift on busy Haywood Road.  I tried for a while to mend it too, but then we just haphazardly fixed it and decided to head back home.  Quickly.

Luckily, Otto went back to hunkering down as soon as the stroller started moving again, so he wasn’t putting too much strain on the defective zipper.  He even quieted down for a bit.  We got a few looks from people, but most of them were positive.  We had a few big smiles, and one lady said to her toddler daughter, “look what they’ve got in their stroller, honey!”  I think we might have made a few people’s day.  

We got home, opened up the broken Buddy Stroller, and a peculiar thing happened.  Otto didn’t want to get out.  He purred and purred, and kept rubbing his face on the sides of the stroller.  When I put my hand in there, he rubbed his face on that.  But Otto was content to stay in the Buddy Stroller, just in case the old girl had one more ride in her.  Frankly, Big Buddy and Big Buddy Girl had had about as much stress as they could handle, so Otto was out of luck.  But one of these days, sometime soon, the Buddy Stroller will set out on another voyage. 

Maybe next time, Wanda will play Captain and Otto can enjoy the luxury of just being First Mate.